The World Beneath

Chapter 8

Ozan hated train tunnels. They smelled like oil and rat piss. The third rail ran electric death along the side of each track. One kick to the wrong spot, and Erol would be alone. Ozan walked on the train ties, both to avoid the third rail and to keep from leaving prints in the dirt.

He’d brought a flashlight, but hadn’t had to use it yet. The tunnels were illuminated well enough that he could walk without one. The light would draw attention, and he never liked to draw attention.

It was inconvenient that he had to come down here, but inconveniences were necessary on a job like his — as were the uncomfortable too-big shoes he currently wore, even though he had a pair that fit perfectly in his jacket pocket.

A train rumbled up and Ozan slipped behind a pillar, taking cover. When he came back out, his target was gone. A shadowy figure headed back to the platform. Ozan tracked it. He caught up just as the man neared the platform. The man paused by the stairs, as if he sensed Ozan’s presence behind him in the tunnel, then hurried into the light. He was several inches too short to be Subject 523, so Ozan retreated.

A few hours later, he was ready to call it a night.

The trains started to run again at 5:30. That gave him only thirty-eight more minutes to search. After that, he’d head topside for a shower and a long sleep, and start again in the evening.

The man should have been distinctive — tall, dressed in dirty fatigues, looking like a homeless man but walking like a military one. Ozan had spotted six men who fit that description in the first few hours of staking out Grand Central Terminal. He’d followed each one, eliminating each one as his target.

Sometimes, jobs were like that — many false trails had to be followed before the right one revealed itself. Ozan didn’t mind.

He’d first spotted Subject 523 when he had walked into the terminal just before the last trains left for the night. He’d gone straight down to Platform 23 and headed into the tunnel where Ozan had lost him. Ozan had a feeling, based on the man’s easy, comfortable stride, that he always used Platform 23 to access the tunnels. He’d probably be back there the next day.

Ozan passed through a maze of tracks where commuter trains converged on Grand Central Terminal. Security swept this area often, and he had to appreciate the target’s stealth. Had the man had been coming down here for months without being caught? Ozan hoped that he himself would be so fortunate.

He was ready to turn back when a glimmer of light twinkled far ahead in the tunnel. A golden orb bobbed up and down — a lantern, not a flashlight. Subject 523 had been carrying a lantern.

Ozan pocketed his own flashlight and closed in on the light. Mindful of stones and debris on the ground, he chose each step carefully, footfalls whisper quiet. It was a matter of professional pride that no one ever heard him coming. And it kept him alive.

The target walked furtively, shoulders hunched, head on a swivel. Whoever the man was, he was nervous. His steps, too, were cautious. The target clearly had training in moving undetected. Nothing about this background had appeared in the dossier Ozan had received, so he had to assume the worst — that the man was trained as a deadly killer and no one had bothered to tell Ozan. Any other assumption was foolish.

Ozan crept closer. The man’s head turned far enough to one side that Ozan recognized his receding chin. Subject 523. In one dirty hand he carried a battery-powered lantern that radiated light in a giant circle. That lamp had drawn Ozan to him as brightness drew so many predators to prey.

The man stopped and held the lantern high, searching in all directions. Ozan stopped, too. The light from the tunnel behind might silhouette him, but he could do little about that now. He eased himself against the stone wall and waited.

Seeming satisfied, the target turned around again. Ozan lagged behind. Once the man chose a tunnel, there were few places where he could turn off and, even for those, his light would make him easy to find — as long as he didn’t become suspicious and douse it. But he was a careful man, Subject 523, so Ozan could take nothing for granted. He didn’t let him out of his sight.

The light bobbed along in front of him like a will-o’-the-wisp. It promised magic and excitement. Because tonight Ozan hoped to kill the man who held it.

He fingered the knife in his pocket, then touched the hard steel Glock he carried in a shoulder holster. Both weapons were suitable, but he hoped to come across an object at the scene that he could use instead. A rock. A brick. A discarded board. On-site weapons were impossible to trace and made the police think of crimes of passion instead of premeditation. That would lead them down blind alleys.

The light ahead stopped abruptly, then jerked up with tiny quick movements as if the man were climbing over a low wall. Ozan noiselessly closed the distance between them. He smelled the target’s sweat and the clay-like odor of disturbed brick dust.

The beam angled toward the ceiling as if it had been put down. Ozan drew his knife. The Glock was a better distance weapon. Considering how the last man on the job died, the more distance the better, but he didn’t enjoy it as much when he killed from a distance. He liked to be close enough to feel their muscles go slack, see death dull their eyes, and let their last rattling breath whisper against his cheek. He stroked the knife’s hilt with his thumb, waiting.

The target had climbed through a jagged hole smashed into a brick wall. Footprints in the dust told him that the target had come to this place and left at least once.

Among the target’s tracks he spotted another set. Whoever had left them was a person of interest, might have met Subject 523 here. Ozan studied the prints, about a size ten, but that meant little. Plenty of short men had large feet, and large men had small ones. The stride would tell him more. He left Subject 523 alone in the brick room and circled back to follow the other man’s prints, careful to keep to the train ties and leave no prints of his own in the dust here.

Based on the length of the strides, the man who had left the prints was tall, around six feet, and had been running. Maybe he’d come across Subject 523 here, too, and 523 had chased him off. A quarrel like that might prove useful to Ozan. He’d prepared an alternate scenario for Subject 523’s murder for the police, but would he use this one instead? The footprints might be years old. Better to stick with what he had. Still, he would track those footprints back to their source later, to be sure.

He crept back toward his target. He didn’t want to lose sight of his quarry tonight of all nights. This was the perfect place. They were alone down here, and he could work without fear of detection, away from the people and surveillance cameras that plagued him. And he’d been told that he must do it soon.

He moved until he could see through the jagged opening into the room where 523 had disappeared. A rusty blue train car sat inside. A curious Ozan slipped closer, glimpsing a small skeleton resting undisturbed in a layer of dust atop the car. Another skeleton lay on the ground a few feet from the car.

The target sat down on the rusty steps, sweat plowing furrows in the dust and grime coating his face.

Ozan didn’t have much time before the trains started running and the security sweeps came by. Someone might hear the man’s screams. And Ozan believed in acting with caution. This man had killed a skilled colleague. He was probably trained to withstand interrogation, at least for a time, and he was large and possibly armed. The best option was to kill him and search for the papers later. The contract had said that their retrieval was desirable, not mandatory. Ozan had no intention of risking his life on lower-level priorities.

He spotted a sledgehammer leaning against the outside of the broken wall, and the decision was made for him. A thin layer of dust coated the hammer, as if it’d been used long ago and then set aside. Maybe 523 himself had brought it here to break the wall. A perfect weapon of opportunity. He closed in on it quickly.

The wood felt slippery under his gloves. It had seen good use, this tool.

The light stayed still in the car, and the target still sat on metal steps that had been folded out from the side of the car as if it had stopped at a station. He leaned forward, hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. “It has to be here,” the man whispered over and over.

It didn’t matter what he was talking about. Ozan had a job to do. He leaped over the broken bricks and into the room. He landed with each foot flat on a different train tie. The time for stealth was past.

The hammer arced down.

The target lifted his head, quicker than Ozan expected.

Hammer met bone. Bone gave. But not the skull. The man had deflected the blow with his right arm.

The man’s left fist connected with the side of Ozan’s head. Ozan’s ears rang, and he stumbled back.

The man was on him then, knocking him to the dirt.

Ozan rolled to the side, but the man fell onto him. His wounded arm dripped blood in Ozan’s open eyes. Ozan blinked it away and twisted the man’s wounded arm. It felt hot, as if the man had a fever. Broken bones grated against each other. The man screamed and reared back.

Ozan pulled away from him and reached for the hammer. The man tried for it, too, but Ozan was quicker. The hammer connected with the side of the man’s head. Blood and gore spattered up onto Ozan’s hands.

The target fell backward against the side of the car. His hands jerked once, and then he was still.

Neatly done. Efficient. One blow.

But this shouldn’t look efficient.

Ozan brought the hammer down five more times. The man’s head stopped looking as if it had ever been human by the third blow. That was what crimes of passion looked like — too much force, wasted energy.

Ozan released the hammer and let it drop into the thick dust next to the body. He did a quick inventory of his own injuries. Nothing serious. A bruise on the side of his head and a cracked rib. He could finish the job and walk away.

No danger now. Without moving his feet, he surveyed the room. The skeleton on the floor belonged to a soldier. Based on the uniform, the man had died here before Ozan was born. Next to that skeleton rested another wearing a stained white lab coat with a dark hole in the shoulder surrounded by a dark blotch. An old bullet hole. What had brought these men to this place? What had brought 523 here?

It must not be relevant to his job. If it were, then he would have been informed.

The artistic part of the job was done. All that remained now were loose ends. First, he searched 523’s pockets. He found, and took, a map of the tunnels and a wad of crumpled one-dollar bills. He didn’t find any other documents, classified or otherwise, but he searched inside and underneath the train car just in case. He found broken alcohol bottles, pens, and a few sheets of aged blank paper with the White House seal. He took those, too. But he found nothing interesting, and nothing modern.

That was a problem. He’d hoped to find those papers.

He had one more task, one he’d almost forgotten because it was so out of his usual routine. He flipped a plastic bag inside out and used it to scoop up a sample of 523’s warm brain tissue. He turned the bag right side out again and sealed it, then put it inside a second bag. He’d have to get the sample into a special chilled container and mail it to his client, proof that the job was complete. Brain tissue seemed an odd choice for DNA testing, but he couldn’t imagine what else they might want it for, unless they’d messed with the man’s brain.

Ozan drew a twenty-dollar bill from his front pocket. He’d never touched it with his bare hands so it wouldn’t have his fingerprints. He folded it and tucked it into the dead man’s pocket. He dropped another bill on the floor.

Three more bills were in Ozan’s pocket, and he fished them out. Dropping his right hand into the man’s blood, he held the bills with his bloody fingertips, careful to smear them enough that it would be hard to tell if he’d worn gloves.

After a murder like that, the killer would be frightened, running. Ozan sprinted toward the door, lengthening his strides to appear taller. He already wore shoes a size too large. The inserts crammed against his toes made it easy to run in them.

Bending, he swept away the prints of the third man, the one who’d stood and watched the target and the room. If the body were ever found, he didn’t want things to be complicated. Whoever that man was, he was lucky.

Ozan smashed the lantern against the wall, and it went dark. Then he headed for the outside by the shortest route, making sure to step in the dirt to leave a good print here and there. If it ever came to it, the police should be able to track the panicked killer aboveground.

Soon he’d be outside. He took off his gloves, carefully turning them inside out and tying the ends closed. He wiped his face and hands with his antiseptic wipes and secured them all in a paper bag. He’d drop it into a dumpster with his ripped and dirty jacket. He’d be an ordinary man out for a stroll in the early morning quiet. He’d leave the too-large shoes he’d worn for the murder and a few bloody bills next a homeless man who slept near this very exit. Then he could go home.

Contentment filled him. He’d completed his task early, and he’d never killed a man with a hammer before. He’d liked it. If only he had someone to share his joy with, but there was just Erol, and he would never understand. Erol must be protected from this side of his brother, always.

Still, he’d done a good job. As much as he knew that he could demand the rest of his fee and move on, a niggling doubt in the back of his mind told him that he must stay a few more days and search for the papers. He would play with Erol and enjoy the pleasures that New York had to offer.

A bark broke through his concentration. Ozan froze, listening.

Another bark. Someone with a dog was behind him, by the murdered man.

Now he had a difficult decision to make. Should he stick to his original plan and leave, or should he go back?

If the man with the dog was a friend of 523, he might have passed him the classified papers.

Their retrieval wasn’t mandatory, but Ozan liked to be thorough.

He turned around and headed back down the tunnel toward the barking dog.